In the Shadow of Truth

Cheride

"Where doubt is, there truth is—it is her shadow." ~Ambrose Bierce

Later, Neal would take a moment to be thankful he'd had a decent breakfast and dressed casually. But when the marshals first showed up at his door, he couldn't think of anything except the confusion and betrayal.

"You don't have to do this," he said as the nearest one pulled his hands behind him. "We're on the same team now; I got a badge and everything."

The marshal just snorted his disbelief and tightened the handcuffs.

"If you just call Agent Burke, he'll tell you I'm an official FBI consultant."

"Agent Burke left the country this morning," the marshal answered. "He doesn't have much need of a 'consultant' while he's on vacation."

All of Neal's arguments deserted him as he felt an unfamiliar twinge in his chest. He swallowed hard, forcing down sudden unwanted emotion. "I guess I didn't think about that."

The marshal snorted again. "I'll bet." He grabbed an arm, herding Neal toward the door.

"Can I at least get my shoes?" Neal asked, looking pointedly at his socked feet. "And maybe a couple of books?"

The marshal didn't slow down. "We'll get you shoes."

Neal sighed and didn't bother asking again, letting himself be ushered out of the apartment.

Just outside his door, June stood in the vestibule, anger radiating from every inch of her, piercing eyes locked on the marshal who'd remained in the hallway, preventing her entry.

Neal gave her a sad look. "I'm sorry about all this, June."

"Nonsense, dear, this certainly isn't your fault." She followed them down the stairs, two marshals separating her from Neal and a third following.

"If you'll tell me what's going on," June continued, "I can have an attorney for you within the hour."

"Thanks, June, but I think I'll be fine. This is just . . . storage." Neal tried to turn around to flash a rueful smile in her direction, but the marshal kept him moving. Just as well. He didn't feel much like smiling, anyway.

When they reached the first floor, he could see yet another marshal stationed at the front door, and shook his head at the heavy-handed display. Just how much did they expect him to resist this? Peter should've known better.

The thought of Peter brought another pang of emotion, and Neal wasn't sure if he was more upset about heading back to prison or because he'd apparently misread the situation with his new handler entirely. He didn't make mistakes like that often, but this could be a big one.

He knew Peter had been frustrated with his "stunt" to bring down Hagen—once the warehouse emptied, the agent had delivered a lecture that made that very clear—but Peter had also seemed impressed with his out of the box thinking, and they had arrested the bad guy, which was the whole point to begin with, so Neal had been hopeful they were off to a good start. They'd even made a plan for this week, hoping the bigwigs were going to allow their deal to become permanent. Unfortunately, that plan basically boiled down to limiting Neal to a radius of just a couple of blocks around June's place while Peter was away, but it was significantly better than the alternative.

And then Peter had waltzed in here just this morning and made him a permanent consultant, never once hinting there was any kind of problem or that Neal would be headed for a cell this week, so he'd thought . . .

Well, he supposed it didn't really matter what he'd thought; Peter obviously thought differently.

At the door, marshal number four dropped a pair of shoes to the floor, and Neal sighed again. He hadn't missed the standard-issue canvas sneakers he'd been forced to endure for the past four years. He slipped into the shoes without comment and the marshals hustled him out the door and into a waiting car, wedging him into the backseat between two of the armed guards. He probably ought to be grateful it wasn't an actual transport van, even if the result was the same.

"So, back to Sing Sing, then?" he asked, deliberately unconcerned.

Beside him, Number Four—Neal couldn't find it in himself to care about their names—shook his head. "That's a lot of paperwork for such a short amount of time. Metro's a lot easier."

Manhattan's Metropolitan Correctional Center was a hellhole, but there was at least some comfort in the confirmation that Peter wasn't throwing him away completely, even if the man hadn't even had the decency to warn him about this oppressive lack of trust.

Mozzie would undoubtedly remind him this was just a suit doing what suits do, and maybe he had a point, but Neal had always been certain Peter was different. He'd never hear the end of it if it turned out Mozzie had been right from the start.

And more important, what would it mean for his deal if it turned out he'd been wrong about Peter all along?

At the MCC, Neal suffered through the indignities and inefficiencies of being surrendered back into the custody of the Bureau of Prisons. The process was long, tedious, and designed to be demeaning, trying to erase any hint of rebellion from new inmates before it had a chance to take hold. Not that it was anything he hadn't been through before, but Neal thought that might actually make things worse, that he'd been relegated back here so soon after enjoying a brief reminder of freedom. He wondered briefly if that might have been the point.

When they stuffed his clothes into a large plastic bag with practiced proficiency but little care, he was glad it was just jeans and a sweater rather than one of Byron's suits. And when they finally shoved him into a solitary cell in the special housing unit, hours had passed and he'd missed the lunch meal.

It would be hours more before the evening tray of slop would be slipped through his door, so Neal crawled onto the hard bunk, leaned against the wall where he could keep his eyes on the door, and tried to figure out how he could've been so wrong about Peter Burke.

The very next day, June arranged for Neal to have an attorney consultation, regardless of his assurances. The legal advice wasn't exactly groundbreaking—keep your head down and stay out of trouble; a week's not that long—but the guy did manage to get permission to bring in some reading material, along with a sketchpad and pencils, so Neal was glad June had done things her own way. He had a feeling she might do that a lot.

But after that meeting, the week passed slowly. He'd known the lawyer was wrong about that part, though; all time was long time inside a cell, and it was multiplied in solitary.

So, with nothing but time on his hands, Neal spent most of it trying to figure out the man who would control his life for the next few years. He thought back over every late-night phone call, every question of his interrogation, every minute of the ten days they'd worked together to catch Hagen, and nowhere did he find even a hint of whatever he'd obviously missed.

Peter was good at his job; Neal had known that all along. But he'd been convinced that Peter was mostly just good. Honest. Dependable. A straight shooter. What you see is what you get. There'd been nothing—nothing—in the past seven years to suggest Peter was a two-faced, overbearing, power hungry jerk who would promise freedom and deliver a cage. And if he'd missed that, what else might he have missed?

Neal wasn't stupid or naïve; working for the feds wasn't going to be easy, might even be dangerous. And he was certain there would be plenty of people less than thrilled at having a felon on the team, so it was possible the danger wouldn't come from just the bad guys. But when he'd considered all of that before making Peter his offer, he had weighed it all against the certainty that Peter, at least, would be on his side.

This was a really bad time to find out he'd read the guy wrong.

But even though time crawled, and he was tormented by his own agonizing thoughts, worried he might've gotten himself into a tighter spot than he'd planned, the week passed uneventfully—Neal knew how to behave when it suited him, and even he would have a hard time causing much trouble in solitary.

Then, just before mealtime Sunday evening, Marshal Number One appeared at his cell to process him out again.

As quickly as possible, Neal changed out of the infernal jumpsuit back into his street clothes, pleasantly surprised to find a pair of his own shoes with his belongings. June's lawyer might not understand inside time, but he had his uses. He let the marshal lock the tracker back around his ankle, signed a few papers, and nodded at the appropriate times when told to go straight home and stay put until it was time to show up at the office bright and early the next morning.

For his fond farewell, Number One smirked and said, "We'll keep a cell made up for you, Caffrey, for when Burke changes his mind again."

Determined he wouldn't give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him squirm, Neal forced a fake smile, thanked the man for the hospitality, then beat a hasty retreat before anyone could change their mind and toss him back in a cell.

Back at home, he headed immediately for the shower, cranked the temperature as hot as he could stand it, and stood in the spray until it ran cold again, letting it wash away the stench of jail.

If only the water could do the same for his newfound fear and uncertainty.

When he came out of the bathroom, Neal discovered food waiting on his dining table. He knew June was away for the weekend, but she must've arranged for staff to prepare him a hot meal whenever he returned. Smiling, he sat down and dug in, grateful he'd stumbled into such a wonderful woman. Peter might think this arrangement was all about living beyond his means—and Neal would never deny the luxury was a real perk—but the truth was, he appreciated June's simple kindness. In his line of work, he didn't get a lot of that, especially in the last four years.

But again, even the passing reminder of Peter sent his thoughts spiraling. All the agonizing of the past seven days hadn't offered him any sort of solution or provided any insight. All he knew was he'd managed to shackle himself to a man he apparently didn't know at all, which was . . . disconcerting, at least on the professional level. No fed was supposed to be able to out-con Neal Caffrey, not even the fed who'd arrested him.

But what worried Neal even more was the jumble of emotions he was having on the personal level. It was bad enough his FBI handler clearly saw him as nothing more than a convict, a means to an end to be used when necessary and locked away when not. But even beyond that, Neal couldn't get past the way it had happened, how Peter had all but lied straight to his face, letting him believe they actually had a deal. That was the part that rankled, the part that made him wonder how he'd ever believed he could trust the man at all. And not just because of the sense of fair play he'd believed Peter possessed, but because he'd always been sure Peter was as infatuated with him as he was with Peter.

Finding out he'd been the victim of some kind of FBI long con, that everything he'd ever known about Peter had been a lie from the start, that was the part that hurt, and it hurt in a way Neal never would've expected.

Eventually, as they had every night for a week, Neal's swirling thoughts followed him into bed, where they kept him awake as he chased them round and round in vicious circles, trying to make sense of the nonsensical, and wondering how he was supposed to face Peter now that he knew the truth.

Hours later, Neal gave up on the illusion he was going to get any sleep whatsoever and crawled out of bed, making his way to the balcony with an extra strong cup of coffee before the sun was even peeking over the horizon.

Barely an hour later, his phone buzzed with a text from Peter.

I hope I'm not waking you. I'm heading into the office super early to start getting caught up. You want a ride in, or would you rather have a couple extra hours of freedom?

Neal sucked in a sharp breath at the callous taunt, but hesitated a long moment before replying, cursing his own uncertainty; a week ago, he would've known exactly what to say. Of course, it occurred to him now that a week ago, he might've been wrong.

Gritting his teeth, he went with what seemed the safest response. Which would you prefer?

Honestly, Neal, it's up to you.

Neal sighed. I'll be ready when you get here.

He still wasn't sure how he was supposed to face the man, or how he was supposed to work with someone he could no longer trust, but he'd run out of time to figure it out.

Twenty-five minutes later, he poured the last of the coffee into a travel mug and headed downstairs.

"Good morning," he said, carefully cheerful as he slid into the passenger seat, "and welcome back." He handed over the mug. "Hopefully you got to try the excellent rainforest coffee in Belize, but June's Italian roast is still delicious."

Peter quirked an eyebrow, but he took the offered mug with a smile. "Thanks."

There was a block or two of silence, and Neal had never felt so ill-prepared to make conversation.

"So, how was the trip?" he asked at last, finally remembering he had a ready-made topic this morning. "Did Elizabeth enjoy it?"

"She loved it," Peter answered. "We both did. I really shouldn't wait another ten years before we do it again."

"That's a good plan," Neal told him. "You know what they say about all work and no play."

Peter grunted some kind of agreement, but he glanced at Neal curiously, and as soon as he pulled to a stop at the next light, he turned and looked fully at his consultant.

"Are you all right?"

With a supreme effort, Neal controlled his flinch. "Never better. Why?"

"I'm not sure," Peter admitted as traffic began moving again. "You just seem . . . off, somehow."

"Thanks." Neal grinned, and even tried on a chuckle for good measure, but if Peter was falling for the nonchalant act, he wasn't the agent Neal had always believed him to be.

Then he remembered that the agent he'd believed Peter to be apparently didn't exist; he'd certainly learned that this past week.

Still, if the game was to pretend nothing out of the ordinary had happened, Neal could get on board with that. Peter Burke wasn't the only one good at hiding the truth.

Sucking in a silent, calming breath, Neal did what he'd always done to survive—buried himself in the full conman façade, complete with easy patter and disarming smiles designed to put anyone at ease. Even now, it bothered him more than he wanted to admit to be using it on Peter.

Neal kept the conversation going as Peter navigated the city streets, lobbing questions about the vacation, comparing notes on Belize. He realized he was even more uptight than he'd known when he snapped at the agent for asking questions of his own, trying to pin down the specific whens and whys of Neal's long-ago visit. That hadn't changed in all the years he'd known the man; Peter was always digging, gathering pieces of information, like Neal was some kind of puzzle to be solved. In the past, Neal had enjoyed the game; today he wasn't sure what kind of picture Peter might put together.

Unfortunately, his response was apparently out of character enough even that got added to the puzzle pieces, if Peter's raised eyebrows and searching gaze were anything to judge by.

So, Neal deflected with an admonishment for Peter to focus on his driving, then focused himself enough to get the conversation back to light-hearted vacation chatter. He kept up the front for the rest of the commute and into the elevator up to the office until Peter said the one thing Neal hadn't expected.

"That's enough about me. How was your week?"

For a split-second, Neal froze, then he quickly gave a bland reply, "My week was fine."

But, again, the way Peter's countenance shifted into a piercing investigative stare told Neal he hadn't controlled his own expression quickly enough, even though he was certain it had been almost immediate. Peter apparently saw things others routinely missed; he'd definitely have to remember that while they were working together.

Assuming Peter really did intend for them to continue working together, of course.

With another breath, Neal forced himself back to his smiling, affable self.

"Naturally, it was nothing to compare to a week on the beach with a cold drink in my hand, but I'll make it back there one of these days."

But Peter wasn't any easier to distract now than he'd been during the chase. "You sure you're okay? Nothing happened last week?"

"Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary," Neal assured him, and he kept smiling as they left the elevator and stepped into the office, where he still didn't give Peter time to go on the offensive.

"What should I be doing while you're catching up?"

"Hmm? Oh, right." Peter looked thoughtful for a moment, then pointed to a lateral file cabinet in the back corner of the bullpen. "That cabinet, it's filled with cold cases. When we're between major investigations, or in any kind of a lull during a case, it's what we do to fill the time, or sometimes just to clear our brains. Grab yourself a couple—it doesn't matter which ones—and read through the case files. Make note of anything that seems out of the ordinary to you, or any questions you have, or ideas, anything at all really. We'll talk about them after I've at least had a chance to get through my email." He smiled a little. "There's not much exciting in there, I'm sorry to say, but it's a good way for you to learn the nuts and bolts of what we do here. Hopefully, you won't be too bored."

"It's okay," Neal assured him as he started toward the cabinet, "whatever you need me to do. Besides, everybody can't be me."

Peter's chuckle as he continued to his office was enough to convince Neal he'd once again put the agent off the scent.

And that's what he thought right up until he heard an angry shout ringing through the empty office.

"Caffrey! Get up here!"

It was unexpected enough that Neal actually jumped a little before quickly pulling himself together. He was only halfway through the first file, and he didn't understand what kind of game Peter was playing, but he had to be ready to keep up.

Even if his freedom was going to be more curtailed than he'd imagined, he couldn't let himself be sent back to prison for good, and he couldn't run, not when Kate was counting on him, so Neal grabbed his files, steeled his nerves, and made his way upstairs.

But before Neal could utter a word, Peter was jabbing a finger toward the visitor chair. "Sit."

Neal sat. His leg bounced nervously for a moment until he forced himself to stillness. Peter was staring silently across the desk, either carefully contemplating something or deliberately making him wait. It probably didn't matter which; it kept him off balance either way. When he was Danny, he'd seen the same technique from a principal or two, and he tried hard not to think about similar treatment from the warden just before visits to solitary.

But whether Danny or Neal, he'd never been very good at waiting out the silence.

"Sorry, I haven't finished these—"

"The cases can wait."

Neal didn't care for the stern tone any more than the silent glare, but he wasn't going to give anything away. "Okay. Then what's up?"

"We're gonna talk about what you were doing while I was away."

"I already told you—"

"Stop. It took about sixty seconds to figure out you spent the week at MCC, Caffrey, so we are going to talk about it. No redirecting, no glossing over, no talking in circles. I just want to hear your side of things and then we'll go from there."

Whatever Peter was hoping to gain from this line of questioning, Neal was still determined to hide the fear and confusion the man's unexpected behavior caused. "I don't have a side."

"Really? That's it? You're not even going to give me the courtesy of an explanation?" Peter shook his head roughly. "Maybe this was a mistake. Not even three weeks in, and—"

"And what, Peter?" Neal interrupted hotly, frustration and disappointment getting the better of his common sense. "What is it you want from me? Whatever message you were trying to send, I got it.

"Remember my place? Okay. I'm an asset with limited uses? Fine. You own me? Got it. I won't forget again, and I won't argue about it. But if you think I'm going to sit here and—and, what? Give you a blow-by-blow accounting of a week in solitary? Grovel a little, so maybe it won't happen again? No. That's not happening. You might own me, but I'm not some puppet on a string dancing to your tune. You'll have to get your kicks some other way."

Neal ended his outburst with a defiant glare, waiting, almost daring Peter to continue the argument.

But Peter just gaped a long moment before finally demanding, "What the hell are you talking about?"

Neal's anger left him as quickly as it had come and he sighed heavily, shoulders slumping. But he forced his eyes to stay locked on Peter's, refusing to back down entirely. "I never figured you for a game player, Peter," he said sadly.

And that really was the worst of it, he thought, that he'd simply expected Peter to be better.

"You know, I had plenty of time to think about things lately, and I realized not warning me in advance almost made sense; why have an argument right when you're trying to go on vacation, right?

"But I really wouldn't have argued much, and I think that's the part you really didn't plan on, isn't it? You probably thought it would be some traumatic, emotional experience you could somehow use to your advantage, right?" He kept his gaze steady. If that kind of emotional manipulation really had been Peter's intent, he wasn't about to let on how close it came to working.

"But you forgot something important, Peter," Neal continued evenly. "I know how to be a prisoner. I'll admit, I almost forgot that you're my jailer, but that's a mistake I won't make again."

Peter was still gaping, looking almost as confused as Neal felt. It took a few seconds for him to respond, and he sounded confused, too. "Neal, are you saying you think I had you locked up?"

Neal's breath caught, and he found himself fighting down the first twinge of hope. "Are you saying you didn't?" he asked slowly.

"Of course not! Believe it or not, I wasn't keeping tabs on you last week, though clearly I should have been. What did you do to get yourself confined?"

The cautious part of his brain told him not to accept the denial at face value, but it was too late. Neal could already feel relief flooding through him—so much so he couldn't even be offended by Peter's accusation.

"I didn't do anything!"

He almost laughed at Peter's returning glower, and he rushed to explain. "Honest. The marshals showed up a couple hours after you left, told me my services weren't required in your absence, and hauled me to lockup. They cut me loose last night and told me to show up here today."

"And you didn't even question that?"

"Of course I questioned it; I thought we had a deal. But they told me—" Neal stopped and thought for a moment. "No, they led me to believe they were acting on your orders." He gave Peter a hard stare then, listening to the caution for just a minute. "You really didn't do it?"

"I really didn't. You really didn't do anything to cause it?"

"I really didn't."

Peter held his gaze for a few moments, then let out a sigh. "Okay. Let me see what I can find out. For now, you go finish reading those files; we'll talk more in a while. Shut the door on your way out." He called out again just before the door closed. "Neal? I will get to the bottom of this," he promised.

Neal nodded silently and headed back downstairs, his step a little lighter now that he could let go of some of his uncharacteristic doubt. If Peter really wasn't to blame for the past week, then maybe he hadn't misread things after all.

He wasn't going to think about why that seemed to matter so much.

But though he tried to keep his attention on the case files—he did still need to learn this job, after all—he was distracted by Peter's raised voice that filtered down into the bullpen occasionally, even through the closed door. He'd already been on the receiving end of a couple Peter Burke tongue lashings, so he didn't envy whoever was on the other end of the phone, but it was an interesting feeling, thinking that instead of being aimed at him, that anger might be on his behalf this time.

Other agents began straggling in, and Peter was still in his office, so Neal kept his head down and kept reading. He'd even finally focused enough to begin making a few notes, preparing a couple of questions, pointing out connections; whatever happened, he knew he still needed to earn his keep.

He was pretty impressed with himself when he finished the first two files, even noticing some things he thought would impress Peter, too. But no one had told him to do anything any different, so he selected two more and kept reading. He was getting some inquisitive glances as his name floated down from time to time from the closed office, but no one said anything, and he certainly didn't have any explanations to offer, so he just kept working.

Eventually Diana showed up, closely followed by Jones. They both greeted him with cautious geniality, which was more than the others had done, so Neal was grateful for that; but not five minutes later, they were standing in front of his desk, glaring.

"I didn't do anything," he said instinctively.

He had realized almost immediately these two were the ones Peter trusted, the ones who'd be the first to rally around their boss if there were ever any sort of problem, the ones who could—and surely would, if the need arose—make Neal's life very, very difficult. After Peter, these were the two that needed to be kept happy, maybe even more than Hughes and the more senior agents. Of course, Neal was good at making people happy, and it helped that he thought he could actually kind of like them, but it still wouldn't do to forget they were federal agents—especially with the way they were looking at him.

Diana gestured upstairs where their red-faced boss was pacing his office, gesturing wildly, restrained only by the length of the phone cord. "What's going on?"

"I'm not exactly sure," Neal answered honestly.

Judging by their almost matching scowls, they didn't believe him.

"It's obviously about you," Diana said. "Is it about something that happened while Peter was away?"

"I think so."

"What did you do?"

Neal was a little more offended by the question this time around. "Nothing! I told you."

Diana was still scowling at him, but Jones just pinned him with a steady look and said quietly, "He's already pretty far out on a limb, you know, and your little 'exigent circumstances' act didn't help much, even if it did lead to the Dutchman. Whatever this is about, I hope it's worth it."

"But I didn't—" Neal broke off as the outer door opened and Agent Hughes strode into the office. "Good morning, sir."

The agents offered their own greetings, but Hughes only gave them the barest head nod as his eyes scanned the bullpen and he immediately seemed to pick up on the surrounding tension. Or maybe he already knew what was going on, Neal thought, watching as the senior agent went directly to Peter's office, not bothering to knock before stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

Peter ended his phone call pretty quickly after that, but he didn't seem to calm down much, though they didn't hear any more shouting. But Peter was still on his feet, still red-faced with hands waving, apparently not concerned about an early morning argument with his boss.

"I hope it's worth it," Jones repeated, then he and Diana returned to their desks.

Neal sighed. "Me, too," he muttered, and went back to his files.

A short while later, Peter's door opened and Hughes continued into his own office, closed the door, and immediately picked up the phone. Not long after that, Peter stepped out to the railing, crooked a finger as he once again bellowed for his consultant, then finally returned to reclaim the seat behind his desk.

Taking a deep breath, Neal gathered his files again, then carefully ignored the outwardly curious stares of everyone in the office as he trotted upstairs.

"Close the door and have a seat," Peter said as soon as Neal reached his office.

Despite the commotion of the past hour and a half, Peter seemed much calmer than their earlier meeting, and Neal let himself relax a bit as he sank into the visitor chair.

This time, Peter didn't waste any time getting things started, and immediately swiveled his computer monitor toward the other side of his desk. "You know this guy?"

Neal only looked at the face on the screen for a moment. "He's one of the guys who hauled me in last week, but I don't know him. I just called him Number One."

Peter sighed like he was disappointed with the answer. "Jonathan Rollins," he said by way of introduction. "He's Warden Haskley's brother-in-law. Apparently, you caused his baby sister some marital strife with that credit card trick during your escape."

"Oh." Neal frowned. "I didn't mean for that to happen. She was always nice to me."

"I'm sure she was," Peter said knowingly, rolling his eyes.

Neal rolled his own eyes. "It wasn't like that. She was in charge of the literacy program out there. I did a lot of tutoring for her and she talked the warden into letting us start a small art program."

"Well, Rollins apparently thought her honor needed defending. He'll get a reprimand, and has been officially prohibited from ever interacting with you or your case again—basically the departmental equivalent of a restraining order. That's the best I could do."

Neal shrugged; that was more than he would've ever expected. "Even I know he didn't technically do anything wrong. Our agreement gives you guys the right to keep me confined as necessary whenever I'm not working."

Peter's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"What? I read the contract, Peter."

Peter sighed again. "I know. But there's a lot of stuff in there just to satisfy the lawyers, not because . . . well, anyway, what he did wasn't okay, even if it was technically within the rules. That's not—" He shook his head, then fiddled with straightening papers on his desk and returning the monitor to its proper position before he finally huffed another breath, then leaned forward on the desk to gaze intently at the young man on the other side.

"Look, Neal, I can't promise I'm never going to put you back in a cell; I think we both know that decision is at least as much yours as mine. But I can promise that if I ever have to do it, I won't be hiding out, letting the marshals do the dirty work for me. I'll be right there, looking you in the eye, putting the cuffs on you myself. And it won't be just because some piece of paper says I can. You understand? We made a deal, and I intend to honor it as long as you do."

Neal's smile was small, but unmistakable.

"So I was right; you're not a game player." He was pretty sure it was more than vindication loosening the pressure in his chest for the first time in days, but Peter didn't need to know that.

"I like to think not." Then Peter narrowed his eyes. "But what about you?"

"What about me?" Neal's face was the picture of innocence.

"You obviously didn't intend to say anything about being locked up, even though it was just as obviously bothering you, and even though I specifically asked about last week."

"But I am a game player; isn't that why you hired me?"

Peter's glare didn't let up, even under the weight of Neal's best cheeky grin, and eventually Neal looked away.

It took a minute, but he finally spoke softly, still not looking back. "It wasn't about lock-up, Peter. Like I said, I know how to be a prisoner."

"Then what?" Peter asked, his tone now matching Neal's. "Help me understand."

Neal chose his words carefully. "What I do—especially now, here—it only works if I'm able to trust myself, trust my instincts." He didn't let himself add how much he also needed—and wanted—to trust Peter.

Letting his eyes finally track back across to the other man, Neal admitted, "I thought I'd misunderstood, thought I'd read you wrong."

"You thought you'd made a mistake offering me the deal."

Neal shrugged, aiming for nonchalance; he still wasn't going to admit just how badly he'd been shaken. In fact, he'd probably already given too much away, so he kept his response simple.

"I can play any game, but I need to know the rules. Seemed like maybe you weren't the guy I thought I knew. Could've made things more difficult, is all."

Leaning back in his chair, Peter offered a small smile. "Much as I hate to admit it, I think you might've had me pegged long before I understood you."

Neal relaxed a little more, even gave a genuine grin. "You think you understand me, Peter?"

"I understand you enough to know this deal isn't just about getting you out of a cell; it's more important to you than that."

When Neal didn't answer that, Peter continued. "The thing is, I knew that meant you might do something impulsive to find Kate, that I'd need to be on guard for that. What I didn't consider is how much you might be willing to tolerate just to make sure you stay on this side of the bars." He shook his head again. "I don't want you to think of me as your jailer, Neal. We can't work together like that, and I can't protect you like that."

"Protect me?"

"This deal isn't one-sided, Caffrey. You've got your obligations to the Bureau, but we've got obligations to you, too. I have obligations to you, and keeping you safe is the biggest one, even if it's just from overbearing marshals on a power trip. I need you to trust me enough to tell me when there's a problem, or I can't do my job."

The last of Neal's doubt finally slipped away as he felt things fall back into place, and he smiled, bright and toothy. "Peter! You're worried about me!"

"Worried you might do something stupid and screw this up for the both of us, you mean." Peter grumbled his response, but his lips twitched upward.

Neal laughed. "You can't fool me."

But Peter was serious again when he said, "And hopefully this morning's exercise has shown you can't fool me, either."

Neal's grin didn't fade, even in the face of such a worrisome proclamation.

True, Peter had seemed to be on to him from the second he'd laid eyes on him this morning, but today was an anomaly, nothing more. He was a conman, after all, and a damn good one; he could fool Peter if he really had to, and until then . . . well, until then, he wouldn't worry too much about why he found himself hoping it would never come to that.

For now, though, he needed to finish getting things back to the status quo.

He hefted the folders he'd brought with him. "Can we talk about these cases now?"

Peter seemed relieved to be moving back to less emotionally fraught topics, too, and leaned forward to watch as Neal spread the files across the desk. "Yes, please. You have questions?"

"Just a couple." He flipped open the first folder with a flourish, pointing to a page of his notes that ended with a suspect name circled at the bottom. "How did you guys ever catch me with this kind of sloppy work? And do I get to go along for the arrest?"

After staring for just a moment, Peter pointed at the door. "Get out."

Neal laughed as he pushed himself to his feet, but before he turned away, he saw Peter's expression shift, saw the crooked smile and the twinkling eyes, maybe the barest hint of approval.

He was still grinning when he made it downstairs, and he paused on the way to his desk just long enough to give a brief update to Jones and Diana.

"It's definitely worth it."

~END~

Hmph. Almost exactly a month late for Caffrey-Burke Day, which is when this was supposed to appear. And, honestly, I could probably fiddle with it for another month and still not be entirely happy with it, so I had to release it to the wild and be done with it. Thanks to Penny and Jules for listening to me gritch about it and offering opinions and reassurance. And thanks to all of you for reading—and being patient with my Muse!